


I’m Not Drunk Enough For This

by Faron_Hawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Humor, Isabela is a Good Friend, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Swearing, creative ways to cheat at arm-wrestling, takes place during act II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faron_Hawke/pseuds/Faron_Hawke
Summary: It should have been a regular night of Wicked Grace with the gang, filled with drunken laughter, cheers, and tankards of ale. But for Hawke, regular nights are few and far between and tonight, she finds herself caught up in an arm-wrestling match... with a drunken moron twice her size.





	1. Chapter 1

It is a deceptively calm night as Hawke navigates the quiet, dusty streets of Lowtown with Isabela at her side. The soft, silver glow of moonlight illuminates the path ahead while the warm, orange flicker of torchlights cast lambent shadows against stone. Even in Lowtown, she feels the slight breeze of sea air carried from the Docks, making the Kirkwall nights cooler than usual.

A part of her misses living here (albeit a very small part). In the morning, the Lowtown market is a bustle of activity with sounds of bartering, gossip, and idle chatter filling the streets. Smells of freshly baked bread, spices, and meats waft through the air as bakers, merchants, and tailors come out to sell their goods. But all the activity and energy dissipates as soon as the sun sets. Vendors put away their wares, closing their stores and any last-minute shoppers quickly rush home. It is an unspoken rule to never wander the streets once night falls. Emerging from their dens in Darktown, thieves, thugs, and throat-cutters prowl the streets under the cover of darkness. Those foolish enough to linger past sundown, unarmed, end up robbed of all belongings if they’re lucky or dead if they aren’t.

But Hawke is no fool. Slung casually over her shoulder is a bladed-staff. She never leaves her Hightown mansion without it, much like the Amell armor she wears, with chainmail underneath for added protection. Though it doesn’t provide as much mobility, it was better than the alternative. She wouldn’t be caught dead wearing mage robes in Kirkwall of all places.

Isabela on the other hand goes with a “less is more” approach. Sporting a revealing white corset, a blue sash around her curved waist, and knee-high boots, she walks with a sway in her hips as though she is still aboard the Siren’s Call. Sheathed behind her back are her aptly named daggers Backstabber and Heartbreaker. There are of course smaller daggers concealed under her clothes. Maker knows how many she has in total but Hawke doesn't expect any less from the self-proclaimed pirate captain. Any gang would think twice before attacking them. But of course, that doesn’t stop them from trying.

“These are never coming out,” Isabela announces suddenly with a huff, as she scrapes the toe of her stained boot against the dirt. “I just got these last week too!”

“It’s not that bad,” says Hawke, eyeing the flecks of dried blood adhered to her companion’s leather boots. “Blood stains are quite the fashion statement, if not, it’ll at least make for an interesting story.”

Isabela stops scraping her boots and narrows her eyes at her, “This is your fault you know.”

“My fault?” Hawke asks incredulously, “How is it my fault the man decided to bleed all over your boots.”

“Decided?! You kicked his body towards me!”

“I did no such thing. It wounds me that you would accuse me of such--” Hawke pauses, recalling their brief scuffle with slavers earlier at the Docks. She glances back at Isabela, her arms are crossed over her chest as she raises an accusatory eyebrow at her.

“Okay, I might have stabbed one of them with the pointy end of my staff….”

“...And?” she prods.

“...and lightly shoved him off. With my foot. Lightly. But in my defense, I didn’t shove him at you on purpose.”

A few seconds of silence pass with Isabela glaring at her before she finally drops a hand to her hip and lets out a long, disappointing sigh.

“I spent weeks looking for them you know? The perfect pair, hand-crafted, made of the finest Antivan leather… and now they’re ruined,” she cries, in the most melodramatic tone possible. “I'll never be able to afford another pair,” she adds, draping the back of her free hand dramatically over her brow.

“Can’t you just steal another pair?” asks Hawke, now absent-mindedly inspecting her own boots.

Isabella shoots her a mortified look as if she was being asked to kick a puppy. “Do you think everything I own is looted or stolen from someone?”

“Well…” Hawke begins dubiously, before giving an unconvincing shrug. “Isn’t that how you got the boots in the first place?”

“I’ll have you know I bought these from that sweet old lady near the tailor,” she states plainly. “And she deserved every copper. I only steal from people who deserve it. Like that arse who duped me into buying that terrible dagger last week,” she huffs.

“Remind me again why I still put up with you?” Hawke chuckles, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she shakes her head. Despite Isabela’s questionable antics, occasional self-centredness, and crude sense of humor, she was a good friend. Isabela herself would never admit it, but Hawke notices it in the little things. Like when she saves a seat for everyone at the Hanged Man during Wicked Grace night, or offers them an invitation to join her pirate crew (yes, even Aveline), or (when she thinks no one is looking) slips a few sovereigns back to Merrill after a string of losses.

“Alright,” says Hawke, “If it makes you feel better, I'll buy you another pair.”

With that, Isabela’s eyes immediately light up and the corners of her lip pull up in a half-smile. “Oh Hawke, you always know how to cheer me up.”

“And you always know how to spend my sovereigns away,” Hawke sighs wistfully.

They make their way up the uneven steps, away from the deserted Lowtown market before finally reaching the entrance of the Hanged Man. Slivers of warm amber light spill out from under the door. Even from outside, Hawke can hear the muffled sounds of laughter and drunken chatter.

“Tell you what, drinks are on me tonight,” says Isabela, placing a hand on the door, “It’s the least I can do.”

“Really? Then I’ll try my best to drink you into bankruptcy.”

“It’s your funeral,” she laughs, as they push open the door into the tavern.


	2. Chapter 2

Raucous voices and laughter welcome Hawke and Isabela as they step inside the Hanged Man. Shedding away the cold night air, Hawke embraces the warmth of the tavern’s hearth as firelight dances across the room. The sprightly tune of a strumming lute can be heard just above the noise and energy of the room. 

It’s fairly cozy, but of course, the Hanged Man is not without flaws. Inside the tavern, the light smell of stale piss and vomit lingers in the air, parts of the wooden floorboards stick to your soles, with stains that never come out, and bar room brawls break out every other night. But still, Hawke wouldn't trade it for any other bar. It felt more like home to her than her own Hightown mansion. 

“There’s a lot of people here tonight,” says Isabela, her eyes scanning the room. 

Despite how late it was, nearly all the tables were filled, a few of the patrons already passed out drunk. Hawke spots a few city guards, merchants, mercenaries, and many sketchy and unfamiliar faces. It wouldn't be a surprise to her if members of the gangs she fought at night came here to drink as well. The Hanged Man is a watering hole of sorts, attracting all sorts of people from Darktown, Lowtown, and the Docks alike. 

As they walk past tables, a few wandering eyes turn to them, lingering a bit too long before Isabela’s threatening gaze forces them to avert their attention elsewhere.

“Thank the Maker we have Varric’s suite. I’d hate to be caught in another brawl with these louts,” says Isabela, a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “I lost a perfectly good dagger last time!”

“Well, the night is still young,” shrugs Hawke with a subtle smirk, earning her a pointed look from Isabela.

“Hawke, if you jinx this, you’re buying drinks for me next time.”

They approach the front counter where the bartender greets them with a curt nod. He turns his back to them as he fills tankards up with foaming, amber ale from the barrels behind the counter. The ale here is not what Hawke would consider great -- or even good -- but it gets the job done, warming their bellies and delivering that distinct buzz of alcohol. 

“Oi Corff! How’s my favorite bartender doing today,” asks Isabela, flashing him a bright smile. She leans in casually against the counter, draping an elbow across the flat surface. 

“If you’re looking for some company, I'm ‘fraid yer out of luck,” he replies, turning around and placing the tankards on a tray. “Nora just finished her shift.”

“As a matter of fact… I’m not looking for company tonight,” says Isabela, to which Corff responds with brows knitted in confusion. “I'm paying for a round of drinks to my good friend here,” she answers, winking at Hawke. Isabela fishes out a gold sovereign from her back pocket and tosses it to the bartender.

“Speaking of paying…” Corff drawls, catching the coin midair and leaning into the counter, “You haven't paid for this month's rent yet. 

“I’ll give you the money. Next week. Promise,” replies Isabela in a heartbeat.

Corff gives Isabela a look that is somewhere between amusement and annoyance before finally pushing off the counter with a sigh. “Fine, one more week. Otherwise I’m finding a new tenant.”

“You’re the best Corff!” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The bartender rolls his eyes and waves her away. “I'll have someone deliver the drinks up for you.”

Finally content, Isabela pushes herself away from the counter and makes her way towards the staircase. “Come on Hawke, Varric’s waiting for us.”

Hawke nods, "You go ahead first, I'll catch up." As soon as Isabela walks a good distance away from the counter, she turns around back to Corff, placing 3 gold sovereigns in front of him. 

He stares at the coins on the counter for a good second before raising a single brow at her, clearly puzzled by her proposition.

“For your troubles,” she explains, “This should be enough to cover the rent.”

He nods, silently pocketing the sovereigns just as Isabela calls out again. “Hawke! We don't have all night you know.”

“Don't let her know I paid for it,” Hawke adds before leaving the bar and heading after Isabela. The last time Isabela found out about her financial favor, she kept inexplicably finding trinkets and other valuables throughout her mansion for 3 weeks straight until the perceived “debt” was settled. Honestly, Hawke didn't mind spending the coin if it could help in some way. She had plenty to spare anyways as the newly reinstated scion and “noble” of House Amell. Just last week she bought Anders a new coat to replace his tattered robes. Maker knows he needed one but would rather spend his coin on medical supplies. She also bought Fenris a new sword, which he refused four times. No doubt he didn't want to appear “ungrateful” by accepting it with nothing to give in return. But she finally got him to accept it on the fifth try, solely on the merit of it being a gift (something she learned that he was not so familiar with up until that point). 

“Took you long enough,” says Isabela, a hand on her hip and eyes squinted in suspicion as Hawke caught up with her.

“I was just listening to the news around town,” Hawke shrugs, hoping to alleviate whatever suspicions Isabela had. “Do you think the rest of the gang’s here yet?”

“Probably not,” replies Isabela, carefully side-stepping around a loose floorboard at the base of the stairs. “But we can play a few rounds of Wicked Grace with whoever’s here. I think the lady battering ram is still on patrol, Anders said he was coming a bit later, and Merrill is...” Isabela suddenly trails off. She tilts her head to the side and looks past Hawke’s shoulder, “right there?”

Following Isabela’s gaze, Hawke turns around and sure enough, she spots Merrill’s familiar face seated in a corner, at a table across the room. Her lithe frame, pointed ears, and vallaslin markings make her stand out from the other patrons in the tavern, like elfroot in Darktown.

“Let’s go grab her and head to Varric’s,” Isabela continues, already making her way to where Merrill was seated. 

Hawke follows closely behind, but as she weaves through the packed tables, a group of men gather around Merrill’s table. 

_That can’t be good._

From afar, Hawke can make out five of them. Each wearing the same leather armor, with pelt pauldrons and fur hoods made to resemble a wolf baring its teeth. Painted in red across the backs of their armor are three claw marks, a symbol that Hawke recognized immediately. The Steel Wolves. A rival mercenary group she competed with while working under the Red Irons. The Wolves were a cold, efficient, and ruthless bunch. And there they were, five of them in a pack. Cornering poor Merrill at her table.

“Seems like Kitten’s in a bit of trouble,” murmurs Isabela. Though her voice is calm and steady, the concern is painted in her hazel eyes and etched in the lines of her face. They both quicken their pace towards Merrill.

The mercenaries are easily twice Merrill’s size. Her seat is pinned in the corner of the room as they sit down next to her on both sides of the table, clearly blocking any way of escape. Hawke can see Merrill’s obvious discomfort as she avoids the mercenaries’ gaze and the corners of her lip twitch in a nervous smile. Her posture changes too, as she draws herself closer together, making herself appear smaller and non-threatening. It’s a subtle defense mechanism Hawke has noticed over the years she has gotten to know Merrill. It’s more obvious whenever they go to Hightown, the Gallows, or any place a Dalish elf would stand out (which is basically anywhere in the city besides the Alienage). As an apostate herself, Hawke knows how dangerous it can be to stand out in a crowd, especially in Kirkwall. But it’s easier for her to hide in plain sight. For Merrill, making herself appear unimportant and blend into the background is her only way to draw less attention and avoid unwanted scrutiny from others. But in a packed tavern, sitting alone, this makes her more of a target, drawing the mercenaries uncomfortably closer to her.

Hawke clenches her fist as a familiar flare of protective anger burns in her chest. She doesn’t know any of the men, but she knows their type well enough. Aggressive, entitled, and manipulative, they linger in the shadows of bars, back-alleys, and empty streets late at night. Watching. Waiting. Stalking those who are alone and preying on those who are weak, with no way to fight back. An “easy” target. 

Despite outward appearances, Hawke knows Merrill isn't helpless. Beneath her soft features, small stature, and gentle nature hides a talented practitioner of ancient elven arts. If this had taken place outside, the mercenaries would be strangled by vines or suffocated in a mist of their own blood. But unfortunately, they were in a tavern, packed with people who do not take kindly to apostates.That sort of flashy magic would land her in the Gallows for execution. Or worse. 

Hawke closes her eyes, forcing herself to calm the heated temper rising within. Mana is not too unlike kindle, with unbridled emotions serving as a matchstick. The last thing she needs right now is her fists bursting into flames. That wouldn’t go over well. She steadies a frosted breath through gritted teeth. 

_Let's try this the civil way first._

As she gets closer, the mercenaries’ obnoxious voices and laughter grow louder. Judging by the flushed faces and empty tankards littering the table nearby, they were all probably on their fourth or fifth drink.

“How ‘bout I buy you another drink, sweetheart,” says one of the brutes a bit too loudly, his words slurring together. 

“Um-- Oh no-- it’s… quite alright,” stammers Merrill, “I'm actually waiting… for some friends.” 

“If it's company you’re lookin’ for, me an’ my boys’ll gladly take you up on that offer,” another man next to her chimes with a crooked grin on his face. 

It took all of Hawke’s willpower not to incinerate them all on the spot. Glancing at Isabela, she could see the same barely contained rage simmering beneath the surface, her hand hovering above a dagger at her waist. 

“We can book a room upstairs, what d’ya say?” he asks, referring more to the rest of his gang than Merrill. “It’'ll be nice… quiet…”

“--No! That--that won't be necessary, really,” Merrill blurts out, nearly stumbling over her words. 

“I insist--,”

“--There you are Kitten, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Isabela interrupts, walking up to the table and ignoring the irked looks of the mercenaries around her. 

“Isabela! Hawke!” Merrill’s eyes light up and relief immediately washes over her face as they approach the table. “Thank the Creators. I came a bit early and thought I’d wait down here for a bit but--”

As she begins to get up from her seat, the mercenary next to her suddenly grips a broad hand on her shoulder. “--Hold it sweetheart, we ain't finished yet.”

With a flash of silver and the swish of a blade cutting through air, Isabela has a dagger pointed directly at the mercenary’s throat. “Get your filthy hands off her before you lose them,” she warns, enunciating the last words sharply. There is a fire in her eyes, the pent up rage threatening to spill over as the patience holding it back wears thin. 

“Isabela!” Merrill shouts.

Before Hawke can even react, there is a screeching of chair legs against wood and the sound of blades leaving their sheathes. The mercenaries -- save for the one next to Merrill -- stand with their swords drawn and raised threateningly at the rogue. Merrill’s eyes dart worriedly between the blades and Isabela. 

Suddenly, everything comes to a halt as an oppressive fog of tension suffocates the music and chatter of the tavern. It’s as if time had been stopped and all air choked from the room. Only the light flickering of firelight and crackling of embers betray any sign of movement and sound as everyone remains rooted in place, weapons gripped tightly in hand.

“Ahem,” Hawke coughs, shattering the tense silence and drawing everyone’s attention to her. “ As much as I’d love to be part of another bar fight,” she continues, eyeing the tips the swords, “I think we’re all civil enough here to use our words.” Lowering the tip of a mercenary’s blade with a finger, her azure eyes locks onto those of the presumed leader of the Steel Wolves. “Wouldn't you agree?”

He pauses, narrowing his eyes at her in contemplation before slowly releasing his grip on Merrill’s shoulder. With a quick wave of his hand, the rest of the mercenaries step back and re-sheathe their weapons. 

“What are you doing?” Isabela whispers without taking her eyes off the mercs. She turns her head slightly towards Hawke, flecks of doubt visible from the corner of her eyes. 

“Just trust me,” Hawke hisses under her breath. 

Tightening the grip on her dagger, Isabela’s cold, hardened stare does not stray as she holds the mercenary leader’s gaze. But finally with a huff, she lowers the weapon, dropping it at her side. "You better know what you’re doing Hawke." She releases her dagger from her usual underhand grip, opting to loosely hold the handle of the blade between her thumb and two fingers. A deceptively harmless grip, but one Hawke knows she can use to flick and throw her dagger with deadly accuracy. A fair compromise as opposed to completely letting her guard down. 

“Alright then,” Hawke exhales turning to address the rest of the room. “Nothing to see here folks, everyone go back to getting drunk.”

A few patrons shoot her a dubious look but gradually, the energy and chatter of the tavern resumes its pace, as though the near-deadly confrontation never happened.

With the tavern’s gaze no longer upon them, Hawke turns her attention back to their table. Though the tension had retreated from the far corners of the room, it still lingered in the air around them.

The mercenary leader is the first to break the silence as he clears his throat. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Y’see--

“-- Misunderstanding?” Isabela cuts in sharply. “You must be deaf because she _clearly. Said. No._ ” Each syllable is laced with venom as she grips the edge of the table and glowers at the merc. 

“I--,” the man falters before quickly recovering. “Y’see, the young missus here was’sittin’ all alone. Being the gentleman we are, we decided to keep’er company,” he says, gesturing to Merrill who looks like she would rather be in the Gallows than sit next to him. She looks up at Hawke, soft, olive green eyes searching in hers’ for reassurance. In that moment, the urge to punch the man’s smug grin off his face was never stronger. Poor Merrill didn’t deserve this. 

“We even bought’er a drink,” he adds proudly, drunkenly gesturing to the untouched tankard in front of Merrill. “It only seems fair she return the favor.. and keep us company as well,” he says with a crooked smile, as if his argument made perfect sense. 

“So your saying… Merrill owes you for your drink and company?” Hawke clarifies, trying to wrap her head around his twisted logic and idiocy. 

The mercenary leader pauses, alcohol clearly fogging up his already dimwitted mind. His thick brows crease in deep thought. “...Exactly!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together with a stupid grin painted across his face. 

“--That's it,” snaps Isabela. All her patience finally spent, she steadies the blade in her hand, ready to bury it in his throat. But before she has the chance, Hawke clamps a gauntleted hand around her wrist. 

Isabela is surprisingly strong as Hawke’s arm tenses against her strength, trying to keep the rogue from drawing the dagger above the table.

“Let. Go. Hawke,” she says through gritted teeth, with an edge in her voice just barely above a whisper. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the hilt of the blade tight, trying to shake off Hawke’s hold on her. 

It’s tempting to let Isabela throw the dagger, just to wipe that stupid grin off the merc’s face. But Hawke has a better idea. 

Before Isabela has a chance draw her second dagger, Hawke turns her attention back to the mercenary leader. “If it's a debt you think Merrill owes you, then I'll gladly settle it for her.”

Both Merrill and Isabela shoot Hawke a mortified look at what she was suggesting. But Hawke remained unfazed, focusing instead on the mercenary’s reaction.

“Hawke, I can’t let you do this,” says Merrill, the concern in her voice almost enough to make Hawke reconsider her own plan.

“I second Merrill on that,” Isabela chimes, “you can't possibly--” 

“--Wait-- you’re Hawke? _The_ Hawke of the Red Irons?” the mercenary interrupts, his gruff voice somewhere between surprised and impressed as he points a hesitant finger at her.

_He knows about me… this could be interesting._

“Yes I am,” says Hawke confidently, crossing her arms over her chest. “And everything you've heard about me. All true.”

Hawke remembers the rather tall tales of her strengths and feats as a Red Iron merc. There were truths at the heart of them all, but many were exaggerated beyond recognition (thanks, Varric). A particular favorite of hers being how she single-handedly defeated an ogre. The stories circulated throughout the Undercity and no doubt a few of them must have reached the ears of the Steel Wolves.

The mercs around the table shift in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances and murmurs. But the mercenary leader remains placid and his expression unreadable, save for a devilish look reflected in his beady eyes. 

Hawke stares him down, not letting her gaze waver. She had been hoping to instill a bit of nervousness, fear, or even begrudging respect from him. Perhaps that was too much to expect from the clearly drunken idiot in front of her. 

“Well then... _Hawke_ ,” his upper lip curls into a crude smile. “How d’you suggest you settle this debt?” he asks, eyes flitting down her body as if she was a paid service at the Blooming Rose. 

Hawke resists the urge to visibly recoil with disgust. _Maker I need a bath after this._ Keeping what remained of her composure together, she forces the corners of her lip up into a passable smile.

“Just settling a debt is no fun, how about a bet?”

He raises a quizzical eyebrow at her, “A bet?...What’re you suggestin’? 

She cracks a more genuine smile this time as she folds her arms over her chest. 

“An arm-wrestling match. You and me. If I win, you leave Merrill alone and never bother her again.” 

“And if I win?” he asks, leaning his elbow onto the table and narrowing his eyes at her.

“Then you have bragging rights for having beat me -- the best, former member of the Red Iron-- in a match of strength.” 

He looks up at her skeptically.

“And,” Hawke adds, “I’ll take Merrill’s place as your drinking partner and ‘company’ for the night. What do you say?”

His heavy set brows lift slightly at that offer. Leaning back in his seat, he strokes his stubbled chin with one hand while the other raps against the table in contemplation. 

“What’s the matter? Afraid of losing?” 

There is a sudden pause as the rest of the Wolves sitting at the table turn to their leader. Waiting for his answer. 

Hawke smirks. She has him cornered.

His right eye twitches in response and the lines of his face contort in a scowl as he flushes an even deeper shade of red. 

“Boys, clear the table!” he barks, “I’ve got an arm-wrestlin’ match to win.”


	3. Chapter 3

The mercenaries clear the tankards off the wooden table in preparation for the arm-wrestling match. Word spreads through the tavern like wildfire and soon, a small crowd gathers around the table. Hawke can hear the clinking of coins exchanged in hands as bets are made, no doubt in favor of her larger opponent. 

“Hawke, are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Isabela, her eyes scanning the commotion now surrounding the table.

“Positive,” Hawke replies without hesitation. Leaning her staff against the wall, she plops down onto a nearby bench away from the crowd and begins unbuckling the clasps of her steel vambrace. 

“Look, I appreciate you sticking your neck out for Merrill but if we had done this my way-”

“-we would have been outnumbered. A mage and rogue against five heavily armored swordsman,” Hawke states bluntly while loosening the last strap of the armorpiece. 

Shifting her weight to one leg, Isabela crosses her arms together. “We've had worse odds than that.”

“True, but I didn't want to take the risk with Merrill right in the middle of the fray.”

With that, Isabela is silent. She opens her mouth once as if to protest but stops short. Finally, she throws her hands up in the air. “Maker, I hate it when you’re right,” she sighs, placing a hand on her hip. “But I still can't believe you’re actually doing this. You do realize he’s twice your size, right?” 

“And what of it?” Hawke continues, pulling the metal gauntlet off her right hand. She tosses the vambrace and gauntlet to Isabela who catches them with a clearly displeased look on her face. 

“There’s no talking you out of this one, is there.”

“Have you ever?” Hawke quips, a smirk reaching the corner of her lips as she stretches her now un-armored arm across her chest. 

Closing her eyes, Isabela pinches the bridge of her nose together before letting out a long winded sigh. “Fine, but if you change your mind, tap the table twice and I’ll stick a knife in his arm.” 

A flash of sharp silver dances in the corner of Hawke’s vision. She glances up to see Isabela already brandishing a small throwing knife and twirling it casually around her finger. 

“Thanks Isabela, your confidence in me is _truly_ inspiring.” 

Isabela shrugs innocently as her blade catches the tavern’s firelight, casting glints off its surface and along the walls. “Think of it as my way of supporting you from the sidelines,” she winks. “Plus I’ll be betting all my money on you, so make sure you win, alright?” Snapping the spinning blade to a halt and wrapping her fingers tightly around the hilt, she offers an outstretched hand to Hawke. 

Isabela had once likened her to the eye of a hurricane (a nicer way of calling her a walking disaster Hawke had joked). However, there was some truth to it. She always did seem to get caught in the middle of someone else’s troubles, for better or for worse. But to Hawke, it felt more like trouble had a way of finding her, dragging her kicking to the center. Though to be fair, sometimes she finds trouble first and _still_ walks towards it. But through everything that Hawke finds herself in, whether it be hunting demons along the Coast, killing bandits at the Docks, or arm-wrestling a drunken idiot at the Hanged Man, Isabela is always by her side, at the centre of the hurricane, riding out the storm with her. 

Hawke smiles, looking up between Isabela’s outstretched hand and the mischievous grin on her face before finally grasping her arm, pulling herself up from the bench.

“Now go out there and break an arm!” says Isabela, giving Hawke a supportive pat on the back. “Preferably his!” she adds with a wink.

“I'll try my best,” replies Hawke with a two-fingered salute. 

Rolling her shoulders back, flexing her elbow, and shaking out her wrist, Hawke makes her way towards the table. The small crowd of patrons gathered around parts, clearing a narrow path for her as she walks past. Ripples of light chatter and whispers circulate throughout the crowd, no doubt debating who would win.

Wood screeches against wood as Hawke casually pulls out a chair with one hand and takes a seat directly across from the mercenary leader. A silent hush settles over the crowd. The rest of the Wolves stand just behind their leader, leaving the table empty save for the two of them. Guarded and sandwiched between two of the mercenaries on the left is Merrill. Her shoulders are pulled up tensely as she glances up uncertainly between the two men towering next to her. No doubt they kept her there as leverage in case Hawke and Isabela decided to duck out of the match with her. Merrill smiles and gives a small wave from across the table. “Good luck Hawke!” she says, before unconvincingly clasping her hands together. She was probably praying to the Creators for her. Facing the mercenary leader up close, Hawke understood why. 

The hulking merc is a good head and a half taller than Hawke. Having stripped off his pelt pauldron and leather vambrace, it somehow made his arms look even larger than it already was. Veins along his bulking bicep and forearm pop out unnaturally as he clenches and unclenches his fist. Hunching over the table, the muscles between his neck and broad shoulder makes his head look comically smaller than the rest of his body. Not too unlike a frilled lizard, Hawke notes, albeit an incredibly buff frilled lizard. 

Her eyes flicker to the right, scanning the crowd. She spots Isabela, not too far from the table, leaning against a pillar. The pirate makes a tapping motion with one hand and a downward stabbing motion with the other, not so subtly reminding Hawke of her offer. 

“So,” Hawke begins, turning her attention back to the mercenary leader and placing her elbow down on the table. “You ready to lose?” 

There’s a slight twitch in the mercenary leader’s eye, poorly hiding his short-fused temper.

“You are going to _regret_ this,” he spat. Mirroring Hawke, he slams his elbow down opposite to her, gripping her hand a bit too tightly. She pretends not to notice, keeping her gaze leveled with his.

One of the merc’s lackeys steps forward. “Both of you start on a count of three.”

“You sure you can count that high?” Hawke retorts, earning a few snickers from the crowd and a seething glare from the merc, but he continues nonetheless. “One... two....three!” 

Hawke immediately braces herself as the mercenary leader thrusts his entire strength into her arm. Her whole arm and shoulder tenses against the sudden pressure as she grits her teeth and pushes back against the merc. Both their arms are locked in the same position, trembling slightly from the sheer opposing force on each end. 

Between training with a bladed-staff and having worked on a farm nearly all her life, Hawke was used to building and utilizing the strength in her arms. Her father had taught her to rely on physical strength first before magic and for that, she was grateful. More often than not her opponents underestimate her strength, a mistake they realize only once it’s too late. 

There is a clamor of excitement from the crowd as they witness the match unfold before them.

The mercenary’s eyes betray a hint of shock upon seeing his arm locked in a tie against Hawke’s, refusing to budge. With renewed determination, he throws even more of his strength and weight behind his arm. He nearly gains a lead but Hawke swiftly counters it, throwing every ounce of strength she has behind her own. Both their arms remain locked in the center, struggling to force the other down.

“Whoo! Go Hawke! You can do this!” 

“Come on, you can’t possibly lose to her!” 

“Take’em down!” 

The rowdy cheers of the crowd quickly fill the tavern, everyone anxious to see who will be the first to give out. The arm-wrestling match quickly becomes less a contest of strength and more a contest of endurance. 

Hawke furrows her brow in concentration, taking steady breaths through gritted teeth. She just had to wait for an opening, a brief lapse in her opponent’s strength to gain an advantage. It wouldn’t be long now, judging from the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and the reddening of his face from overexertion.

All of a sudden, the mercenary’s grip tightens even more around her hand causing her to wince in pain. 

_What the-_

The mercenary begins to overpower her as he slowly begins to force Hawke’s hand down towards the table. 

Her muscles strain against the weight as she desperately pulls upwards against his arm with all her strength and willpower. _Come on!_

But it’s no use. Her chances of winning rapidly slip away as her arm is forced downwards, the back of her hand now hovering dangerously close to the table. 

“Hawke!” 

She swivels her head towards to the source of the voice, meeting Merrill’s concerned gaze.

“He’s cheating! Look on his finger, he has- ” 

The mercenary leader’s tightens his grip again on Hawke’s hand, forcing her to tear her attention away from Merrill. She grits her teeth, trying not to let the pain show on her face.

 _How is he cheating?_

Her eyes flicker to the mercenary’s hand and a flash of silver draws her attention to his index finger. A ring. With a small, oval ruby embedded in its head. Squinting her eyes, she can make out symbols etched along the sides of the metal band and a faint red pulse emanating from the ruby. 

_You son of a bitch._

It was an enchanted ring, engraved with strength enhancing runes. 

The back of her hand is now hovering just a few inches above the wooden table, struggling to hold back against her opponent’s augmented strength. His deathly grip is definitely cutting off circulation to her hand. She wouldn’t be able to hold him back for much longer.

 _Fine, you want to play dirty, I can play dirty._

Closing her eyes, she blocks out the raucous sounds of the tavern, concentrating on the thrum of her heartbeat and interval of her breaths. 

Breathing in through her nose, she focuses on the wellspring of mana within, tapping into its source and drawing it forth. A familiar chill emanates from her chest outward as she allows the mana to flow down her arms, to her fingertips, and throughout her body. 

Exhaling through pursed lips, she ignites the mana. Warmth immediately envelops her as the mana is consumed, burning a direct connection to the Fade. A gateway beyond the Veil begins to manifest within. As the last of the mana burns away, so too does the barrier between her and Fade. Granting her access to powers from beyond the Veil. Waiting to be given physical form. To be shaped into reality. 

She begins drawing forth from the raw, untapped power of the Fade, weaving and channeling its energy into a focused telekinetic burst against the backside of her forearm. In theory, the knockback of the spell should be enough to counter the ring’s enchantment, pushing her arm forward, and forcing her opponent’s arm back to the opposite end of the table. But then again, she’s never done force magic on such a small scale before. 

Hawke can’t help but let out a nervous laugh. This was probably a dumb idea. Unnecessarily risky. Incredibly stupid as Aveline would put it. But there was no way in hell she was letting him win. 

With a silent prayer to the Maker, she lets the spell loose. 

Goosebumps prickle across her forearm as a surge of magical energy skims over the surface of her skin. There is a change of pressure in the room, her ears pop and she swears she can hear static. 

_Oh shit._

In that moment, she immediately regrets casting the spell but it’s too late. 

**BAM!**

Everything happens in the blink of an eye. One moment, her arm had been seconds away from touching the table. The next, splinters of wood flew everywhere accompanied by the sickening crunch of bone as Hawke’s telekinetic burst propelled her arm forward at lightning speed, bringing her opponent’s arm crashing down through the table. 

So much for a subtle victory. 

There is a short-lived silence as everyone- Hawke included- stares dumbfounded at what had just happened. 

She half-expected her arm to be fractured or dislocated but to her surprise, everything is still intact. Albeit a bit sore. 

_It worked. It actually-_

An ear-splitting howl quickly breaks the silence, drawing Hawke’s attention back to the mercenary leader sprawled on the ground amidst the shattered remains of the wooden table. His broken arm juts out at an unnatural angle, swelling around the fracture site as he cradles it against his chest. 

“You- you cheating bitch!” he cries, blinking back tears.

_Says the one wearing an enchanted ring._

But the words are caught in her throat as the weight of the situation crashes into her like a sack of bricks.

Like most of her actions, she regrets them only after she has taken them. This. This is one of them.

Using magic so blatantly out in the open. In the middle of a crowd no less. Someone is bound to question the superhuman strength she displayed just moments before. 

Tension coils in her shoulders and the pit of her stomach drop as cold panic washes over her. She needs to come up with something. Fast. 

“Look,” she continues, not letting the panic seep into her voice. “I won fair and square. You can’t blame me for not knowing my own strength.”

_Nope. That was bad. Absolutely terrible. What kind of idiot would believe that?_

She can already imagine the templars kicking down the doors, ready to capture and drag her away. But what a way to go. Getting sent to the Gallows over an arm-wrestling match. That would be a new low. Despite the rather dismal scenario, she couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the thought of being made Tranquil for arm-wrestling. 

Miraculously, she manages to keep a straight face as she leans back in her seat, arms folded, all the while praying that no one calls her out on her bullshit.

To her surprise and relief, murmurs of agreement begin rippling through the crowd along with the clinking of coins exchanging hands as bets are settled. Whether people actually bought her poorly-thought-of-on-the-spot lie or whether they were too drunk or too intimidated, she didn’t care. There would be no templars hunting her down tonight and that was all that mattered. The tension in her shoulder eases away as she lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Now,” Hawke says, looking down from her seat at the sad excuse for a mercenary leader, “I believe we had a deal.” 

Slowly, the mercenary leader drags himself back to his feet. He shoots a menacing, bloodshot glare at Hawke. “Deal?! _You broke my fuckin’ arm!_ ” 

“To be fair, that was an accident. But I _did_ win, didn’t I?” 

An angry vein bulges on the side of the merc’s temple. His face is fuming red as it contorts with rage. “You’ll pay for this!”

Suddenly, he charges at her with surprising speed. There is a glint of silver against firelight as he draws a dagger with his remaining good hand.

 _Here we go again._

With her staff on the other end of the room, she’d have to improvise a little in terms of weaponry. 

Immediately, Hawke swivels around out of her seat, grabbing the back posts of the wooden chair with both hands. Her back is dangerously turned towards the dagger-wielding merc. She has to time this just right. 

In the corner of her eye, she sees him take a final step closer raising the dagger over his head. 

Now. 

Pivoting with her left foot, she lifts the chair off the ground and swings it in momentum with her body, using every ounce of strength she can muster. 

The chair splinters as it collides against the merc's shoulder, flinging him forcefully to the side and sending him crashing onto the floor with a loud thud. 

Hawke stands over the merc, with chair still raised in hand. When she is sure that he won’t get back up, she drops the broken remains of the chair onto the floor, dusting off her hands. 

“Alright, you three,” she gestures with her head to three of the Steel Wolves standing motionless and dumbfounded in the background. “Pick up your boss and get out. If I see any of your faces here again, I will personally break all your arms.” 

She’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel good seeing their faces immediately go sheet white. Without hesitation, they quickly nod their heads and go to collect their unconscious leader off the floor. 

As Hawke turns around, she becomes acutely aware of the growing silence that filled the room. 

“Alright everyone,” she says, realizing that the eyes of the tavern’s crowd are still on her. “The arm-wrestling match is over, you’ve either earned your coin or lost it. No need to keep-” 

“-Look out behind you!” 

There are collective gasps and Hawke immediately turns around but she’s too late. The merc leader had somehow gotten back up and closed the distance between them. She sees a flash of silver as he swings the blade directly towards her neck. Adrenaline kicks in as she quickly steps back to try and dodge it. But he’s too close this time. Best case scenario, she’d catch the blade in her collarbone. Worst case scenario, the blade would slash her throat. Either way, she would not be able to dodge it in time. 

Before he can land the blow, he suddenly stops. Frozen in his tracks with the blade hovering just inches away from her neck. His muscles are locked up, straining against itself as he struggles to move save for his eyes which go wide with shock and confusion. 

Hawke staggers back away from the blade, just as confused until she sees Merrill out of the corner of her vision. Blood drips slowly from her clenched fist as her soft features furrow in deep concentration, maintaining her blood magic’s hold on the mercenary. 

_Thanks Merrill._

Before the mercenary’s frozen posture draws any more suspicious and unwanted attention, Hawke balls her hand into a fist and punches the merc square in the face as hard as she can. Just as she lands the blow, Merrill releases her hold on him and his body crumples to the floor with a satisfying thud. 

He is definitely not getting up from that one for a while. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It doesn’t take long for the tavern to resume its regular pace of idle chatter, drinking, and occasional laughter. Completely ignoring the fact that Hawke had nearly gotten killed just moments before. But considering the number of bar fights and casualties that have taken place at the Hanged Man, it’s not really a surprise. 

Though the Steel Wolves had finally been driven out of the tavern, something tells Hawke that it wouldn’t be the last she sees of them. But at the moment, it’s the least of her problems. 

“Really sorry about the damages Corff,” Hawke says loosening the drawstrings of a hefty coin purse and emptying out all its contents onto the bar table. “And the blood stains,” she adds, pushing the coins in a neat pile in front of him. “I promise never to get into another arm-wrestling match again.” 

Corff shifts his attention between the splintered remains of the table and chair, the pile of coins, before finally looking at Hawke with an expression that she could not read for the life of her. 

“Please don’t kick me out,” she pleads with an unconvincing smile. 

He stares at her for what seems like an eternity before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose together while breathing out deeply through his nose.

“I’m probably gonna regret this but...” He scoops up the gold and silver coins in front of him. “You and your gang do help keep this place running. Besides, if I kicked you out, no one would pay Isabela’s tab and rent.” 

Hawke lets out a sigh of relief. “Thanks Corff.” 

Pushing herself away from the counter, she winds her way back through the tables towards the base of the stairs where Isabela and Merrill stood waiting for her. 

“Did you _really_ have to take all the money I won to pay for the damages?” asks Isabela, as she catches the now empty coin purse that Hawke tosses back to her. 

“Well, you wouldn’t have gotten that money if it wasn’t for me so yes,” Hawke answers in a matter-of-fact tone. “Plus it’s payback for not helping me out during the fight,” she smirks. 

Isabela feigns a look of shock. “ _Excuse you_ , I was making sure Merrill here was free so that she could help save your ass.”

Hawke casts an unconvinced look towards Isabela. 

“It's true,” Merrill chimes in, much to Hawke's surprise.

“If Isabela hadn't come round back and shanked those two mercenaries next to me,” Merrill continues, mirroring the small actions with her hands, “I wouldn't have been able to use my magic.”

“See?” Isabela says, gesturing to Merrill, “I did help out, so you're welcome.” 

“But I’m terribly sorry for dragging you both into this,” Merrill blurts, “I should have waited upstairs, I don’t know why I-” 

“There’s no need to apologize Merrill,” Hawke replies, “You did nothing wrong.”

“But-” 

“Listen to her, Kitten,” says Isabela, placing a reassuring hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “If anything, those bastards should've apologized.... Though, I've got to admit, seeing their leader's ass get handed to them was _much_ more satisfying than an apology.”

“I suppose so,” Merrill replies with a small laugh. She looks up between the two of them with a genuine smile of gratitude. “Thank-you both for getting me out of that mess.”

“No worries,” replies Hawke, “If anything, I should be the one thanking you-.”

“-Ahem,” Isabela coughs.

“... _and_ Isabela,” Hawke continues. “Without the both of you, I'd probably have bled out on the floor of the tavern by now.”

“I'm sure Varric would love to hear all about what kept us,” says Isabela, combing back her dark curls and adjusting her bandana. “Speaking of… we've probably kept him and the others waiting long enough, don't you think Hawke?” 

“Oh, Isabela's right!” exclaims Merrill, her ears drooping slightly. “We must be terribly late by now. What with everything that's happened.”

“I'm sure Varric won't mind. Not with the story we've got to share,” Hawke winks. 

“I can already imagine him retelling it later with a bunch of ridiculous details added in,” sighs Isabela. 

The three of them laugh as they make their way up the stairs towards Varric's suite where they’d spend the rest of the night sharing stories, drinking ale, playing Wicked Grace, and challenging one another to arm-wrestling matches (minus any enchanted rings and magic of course).


End file.
